


like never before ('cause lately I've been craving more)

by noelia_g



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Groundhog Day, M/M, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-05
Updated: 2013-09-05
Packaged: 2017-12-25 17:49:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/955953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noelia_g/pseuds/noelia_g
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras wakes up and it's yesterday. And it keeps on being yesterday, over and over again.</p>
<p>He's not an idiot, he knows his solution has to do with Grantaire, he's seen the damn movie, but there's a reason why he's avoided thinking of this <i>thing</i> between them for so long now.</p>
<p>He has all the time in the world to think about it now, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like never before ('cause lately I've been craving more)

**Author's Note:**

> This is it, my inevitable Groundhog Day AU, so help me god.

There are many good things about the apartment Enjolras rents out with Combeferre. It’s roomy and gets a lot of light, it’s situated within the perfect distance of both the University and Enjolras’ office, and it has the water pressure to die for. 

On the downside, the walls are thin and noises carry like nobody’s business.

Which usually doesn’t matter, because he lives with _Combeferre_ , whose loudest noises mostly consist of clicking mugs of coffee together, typing with purpose, and the occasional shuffling of his feet in slippers that must have at some point belonged to somebody’s grandfather. 

Well, that and the occasional scream of frustration at the ineffable stupidity of undergrads, but that’s entirely warranted; Enjolras had seen the essays. 

But the point isn’t that Combeferre is a perfect flatmate. The point is that the one, usually pretty forgettable, issue with the apartment becomes a lot more noticeable when Courfeyrac stays over.

Courfeyrac _sings in the shower_.

Well, he calls it singing. Enjolras calls it cruel and unusual and something that should be against the Geneva Convention.

He groans and covers his head with his pillow. It doesn’t help and he can still hear Courfeyrac assuring the showerhead that they are never ever getting back together.

Enjolras darkly contemplates the idea of going into the bathroom and _flushing_ , but that means getting closer to the infernal noise, and, well, _no._

There is no point in trying to get back to sleep, however, and the pillow isn’t of much help, so he groans again and drags himself to the kitchen where, lo and behold, Combeferre already made coffee. Enjolras wraps his fingers around the warm mug and inhales deeply. “You, I like,” he mutters, the words half and half directed at Combeferre and the coffee. 

Combeferre laughs and shakes his head. “That bodes well for me. You got that future evil overlord look,” he adds.

“The overlord institution is an inherently flawed idea; the people...” Enjolras starts.

“Drink your coffee,” Combeferre tells him flatly, shuffling through the papers they left on the kitchen counter last night. “I’ll type the notes up and send them ‘round. Are you going to the town hall today?”

“When have we decided it’s me again?” Enjolras asks suspiciously and gets a look from Combeferre and a snort from Courfeyrac, who’s towelling off his hair even as he makes his way over to get coffee. Enjolras holds his mug to his chest protectively; Courfeyrac is well known to steal coffee if you’re not paying attention. 

“Please. You’re the one who reminds Gladys of her first husband; of course you are the one who’s getting the permits.”

“It’s charming,” Combeferre tells him.

“It was vaguely charming the first time she mentioned it. Then she got handsy,” Enjolras complains. “I nominate Courfeyrac to go this time.”

“Do you _want_ to get the permits or do you want to be stuck in a paperwork limbo until Christmas?” Courfeyrac asks, before downing an entire mug of coffee in one go and pointedly raising it up at Combeferre for a refill. 

“Is this a trick question?”

Combeferre sighs at them and then pushes a piece of paper towards Courfeyrac. “Courf is going to be working on the webpage anyway. And I _am_ going to have the copy sent to me for approval this time, Courfeyrac, we’re not having a repeat of the FAQ fiasco.”

“In my defense, those _were_ the frequently asked questions.”

“Just because Grantaire asked you twice...” Enjolras mutters.

“The public wants to know, Enjolras, they really do. And you know, it would only be good for you if...”

“I’ll make pancakes if both of you shut up,” Combeferre tells them, pinching the bridge of his nose. He’s starting early. Enjolras obligingly doesn’t say anything and opens his laptop, firing it up and sipping his coffee. Courfeyrac scowls at both of them, but the thought of Combeferre’s pancakes is enough to shut him up as well.

It doesn’t last long, as it never does, but Enjolras gets through a good half of his messages before Courfeyrac breaks and starts talking about a novel Combeferre recommended and how it was ‘the shit.’ which apparently was a good thing. 

How. 

Enjolras gave him a look when he started discussing the plot, however, after effusive praise of the style. Thankfully, Courfeyrac knew well enough to shut up, because the same novel has been lying untouched on Enjolras’ nightstand for the past two weeks. Combeferre’s book recommendations were usually right on the money, there just hasn’t been _time_.

And speaking of, he should be going. He announces that out loud and Courfeyrac sends him a pointed look, like he’s calling bullshit, which Enjolras promptly ignores. 

He can’t ignore Combeferre, though, who gives him a different kind of a pointed look and places a plate in front of him with a loud clink. “You have time to eat,” he all but commands and it’s too early for that part where they discuss Combeferre’s mother-henning tendencies, so Enjolras just digs in.

He’s well skilled at picking his battles and sometimes it’s easier to just give in. There are many occasions on which Combeferre practices a similar philosophy when it comes to him, Enjolras is well aware. So Enjolras eats his pancakes and washes them down with a second cup of coffee and lets Courfeyrac talk him into redesigning the website entirely. 

Courfeyrac gathers up his things to leave when Enjolras does, and Combeferre good-naturedly mutters something about blissful peace, prompting Courfeyrac to flip him off with a grin. They part ways two blocks down; Courfeyrac excusing himself to head to his place to change before work. It’s flimsy at best - he’s been keeping a change of clothes at their place for almost as long as they lived there - but that’s probably because he’s well aware where Enjolras intends to stop on his way to work and he’s still avoiding Cosette.

The cafe is barely open; Cosette is just writing down today’s special on the board and the machine is just whirring to life. And yet, Enjolras is not the first customer of the day. 

“Morning,” Enjolras says, trying for light politeness. It probably misses the target because even he can hear the frown in his own voice. It’s been awhile since he saw Grantaire here this early, head on his favourite table and dark hair obscuring his face entirely. It’s been a while, and that has been, Enjolras supposes, a good thing, because Grantaire here so early means it’s a Grantaire who hadn’t made it home last night.

Grantaire shifts slowly, his right cheek on the table now as he peers up through the hair in his eyes. “Yeah,” he agrees, acknowledging that it is, indeed, a morning. There’s a reason Enjolras hasn’t preceded it with ‘good’ and that is because it is an early morning and as such does not make for a good time for a discussion on subjectivity.

They’ve been here before.

“Usual?” Cosette asks with laughing eyes, already moving fluidly as she reaches for their largest paper cup. 

Enjolras shrugs. “Surprise me,” he offers flatly.

She laughs. “One of these days that’s gonna land you with a caramel latte macchiato on soy, and what then? With sprinkles,” she adds.

“You are not a cruel woman, Cosette, and I doubt you’d follow on those threats,” he says. accepting the cup gratefully. She waves away the five dollars note and he glares at her before folding it and dropping it into the tip jar. Cosette glares right back, but she ruins it by grinning before she saunters around the counter to put a plate with a muffin and a cup of coffee in front of Grantaire. She’s not being quiet about it either and Grantaire groans and swats at her almost playfully.

“Wrong, she’s _beyond_ cruel,” Grantaire complains and she blows him a kiss and tells him to eat his goddamn muffin before winking at Enjolras. He shakes his head at both of them and hesitates, half turned towards the door. 

He’s not quite sure where the reluctance is coming from, the low urge to _linger_ in the warmth of the cafe for a little while longer. 

Grantaire is picking at his muffin, dark shadows under his eyes and a light bruise blooming on his jaw, and Cosette made her way back behind the counter, arranging pastries on display and humming quietly. She catches Enjolras’ gaze and holds up a bear claw inquiringly and he shakes his head before glancing at Grantaire again. 

He looks like he hadn’t slept for more than this one night, there’s something sharp about the set of his mouth and he gives off a general air of wrinkliness, weariness, that’s more than just wearing yesterday’s clothes that smell of beer and smoke and a long night out. 

Enjolras takes a half step towards the table and then shakes his head at himself, almost seamlessly changing direction and heading out, calling out a goodbye that only Cosette responds to. 

He’s not about to pass on getting to the office early and before everyone and getting more work done in that half an hour he’ll have than he’ll manage for the most of the day. Anna Louise gives him a long look when he passes by her desk, but she’s there before him, so it’s not like she has room to talk. 

The place fills up quickly with the usual noise and bustle, phones going off and people typing aggressively in between calling out crossword prompts and debating take-out choices because rarely ever does anyone even leaves for lunch, they just stockpile carton containers on the already towering piles of manila folders. Lamarque drops off two more on Enjolras’ desk and then has the gall to say there’s no rush, Enjolras should take a day off, or two.

That woman practically _invented_ living in the office, Enjolras wants to point out, but she’s already moved on, speaking quietly on the phone. 

Marius makes his way over by lunchtime and asks if Enjolras wants to go eat outside today, because apparently Cosette has a thing with Eponine and so he’s been stood up. He doesn’t seem particularly put upon and when Enjolras inquiries what is the thing in question, Marius shrugs and breezily says he’s learned not to ask. Wise man, that. 

“I’m sorry, I need to pay a visit to the town hall,” Enjolras says with some regret and Marius nods before perking up again.

“The permits, right? I’ll go,” he offers, a bit too eagerly. Enjolras hesitates, but Gladys likes Marius well enough (and more than enjoys making him blush) and Marius seems rather desperate to get out of the office, probably because the new intern hadn’t stopped flirting with him for days and Marius is caught in the trap of his own petrified awkward politeness. 

“I should...” Enjolras starts and Marius waves his hand at him.

“No, I’m going. Already gone,” he adds, walking towards the exit backwards. He stumbles into Anna Louise and yelps when she pokes him in the ribs with her pen in retaliation. “Bye.”

Enjolras waits until the doors shut and looks at her. “Must you?”

“He’s fun when he’s flustered,” Anna Louise shrugs. “I’m sure Cosette agrees with me.”

The interns certainly agree with her. 

Enjolras shakes his head again at the lot of them and gets back to his work, going through the folders Lamarque has dropped off. Both cases are right up his alley; she knows him well enough, and none of those people could afford legal help if they weren’t taking this. Of course, she’s also suggested Enjolras took some time off before getting to these, which is clearly not happening.

“Your posse is here,” Christian informs him and Enjolras glances outside, rolling his eyes. Courfeyrac grins at him, clearly delighted at being referred to as posse.

It’s probably the title he gave the receptionist. Or if not, the one he’ll use from now on.

“I have been tasked with a glorious duty,” he tells Enjolras, drawing himself up from one of the comfortable chairs in the waiting area. He stands straight and spreads his arms theatrically. “I am to drag your sorry ass to Musain, my liege, as ordained by the fair lady Musichetta. Your chariot awaits,” he finishes off with a shallow bow, then adds, back to his normal tone. “We’re celebrating because Joly got the thing.”

“The thing,” Enjolras repeats flatly, because _the thing_ is a coveted spot in one of the best clinics in the city. “That’s what you’re going with.”

“Someone has to keep him humble,” Courfeyrac says philosophically. “It is a service I’ve been performing for you for years, and see how well you turned out.” He pauses and thinks it over. “Bad example.”

The problem, Enjolras supposes, is that one day he’ll be rolling his eyes so hard his face actually will get stuck like that, as his grandmother always threatened it would. He lets Courfeyrac drag him downstairs anyway, and towards the parking lot, where Grantaire rolled the windows down, his feet sticking out as he sprawls in the driver’s seat. 

“Should you be driving?” Enjolras asks, because Grantaire looks like he should still be sleeping off whatever happened last night and while he has clean clothes on, including an actual dress shirt, he still looks... wrinkled, somehow, rough and rugged. 

“I’m sober,” Grantaire mutters, somehow defensively, drawing himself up. He buckles up and starts the engine before grinning sharply. “Currently, that is. For who can foresee what the night will bring,” he adds. “Not I, certainly.”

Enjolras drums his fingers against the armrest and waits for Courfeyrac to climb into the back seat, swearing when his knee hits the guitar case Grantaire consistently refuses to put in the trunk unless he really has to. 

“I didn’t mean that,” he tells Grantaire, and he knows that the long pause in between, when he considered whether to say anything at all, makes a liar out of him in Grantaire’s ears. 

Grantaire pauses before glancing at him and shrugging, and in the meantime Courfeyrac got settled and buckled up. “Are we there yet?” he asks pointedly and Grantaire maneuvers the car out of the parking spot. 

“Who’s in charge of gifts?” Enjolras asks, looking away from Grantaire finally. There’s a fund for unexpected occasions like this, set up by Jehan during their junior year of college, after they frantically scrambled to collect money and get a gift for Grantaire after the man let it slip that it was actually his birthday after an impressively long time of repeating he hated the fuss.

Not that Joly’s success is all that unexpected.

(Grantaire still hates the fuss, though.)

“Bousset took care of the boring, useful gifts. I think they got him a kindle,” Courfeyrac shudders theatrically. “Me, I am prepared. I have had chlamydia saved up for him for ages.”

It’s an old joke that someone started freshman year. Probably Musichetta, though Grantaire and Bahorel are also prime suspects. Any occasion, every occasion, Joly would get the regular gift, but he’d also get one of the giant stuff microbes plushies someone would order from the internet. He has quite a collection right now and while he was slightly mortified by the very idea at the beginning, now he proudly displays them on his shelves. 

Still.

“You might want to rephrase this, Courfeyrac.”

“I already did. The first version was much worse.”

“Oh god,” Enjolras mutters. Grantaire’s amusement comes off him in waves and is really not helpful. He glances at Enjolras once or twice, his lips tightly set and twitching, holding back a laugh. It makes him look mischievous; it makes him look happy. It’s really difficult not to smile back, even if it does only encourage Courfeyrac.

The party is taking place at Musain, probably because this is an all hands on deck gathering and no one’s apartment is really suited to this; they barely manage to hold movie nights at Enjolras and Combeferre’s place and that’s when everyone is cocooned in blankets and down with pizza coma. 

They’re almost the last ones to arrive (save for Feuilly, who’s also coming straight from the airport, and Cosette) and they missed the whole ‘surprise’ part of the evening, which is just as well. Besides, no one ever managed to surprise Joly with a surprise party because Bousset always spills the beans somehow. They’ve taken over the entire cafe, except for two tables occupied by a group of co-eds throwing them increasingly incredulous looks, especially after Joly unpacks the brown-paper-and-duct-tape packaged gift Courfeyrac tosses at him and yells happily “I have chlamydia!”

They must look strange from outside, he thinks sometimes, especially at times like this, when Courfeyrac yells for a speech and Joly argues he’d express himself better through an interpretative dance but he’ll need some help from his lovely assistant Musichetta before twirling her around the place. The problem with that is that Musichetta insists on leading and Joly tries to do that as well. Bousset almost falls over laughing at them. 

Enjolras knows he’s smiling as he surveys the room from his place by Combeferre and Eponine, who are engaged in a long argument about fines for traffic violations, of all the things. Neither of them actually owns a car, and never have, as far as Enjolras knows.

Enjolras is only half listening, and he’s definitely not getting in on this, because Eponine is somehow particularly riled up today. He looks around the room instead, until his eyes find Grantaire and then he can’t even pretend to himself he wasn’t looking for him.

It’s not a new thing, either.

Grantaire has a bottle of beer in front of him and is scratching off the label as he’s listening to Marius. He interrupts once or twice, almost absently, his attention fixed on the task of removing the label; and whatever he’s saying makes Marius flush and duck his head, so it’s probably about Cosette. It usually is about Cosette.

The shadows under Grantaire’s eyes are darker than most days, and the slope of his shoulders is worrying. He fidgets, too, not just the constant scratching at the bottle but the way he drums his fingers against the table, shifts every few seconds, moves his head like he’s trying to work out a crick out of his neck and nothing helps. 

Grantaire looks up suddenly, his gaze meeting Enjolras, like he could feel him watching. He raises his chin up questioningly and Enjolras shrugs. The back of his hand itches, spreading to his fingers; a clammy sort of a shiver that circles back to his palm. 

He looks away, because the alternative is walking over there, and he’s really not angling for a fight tonight and that’s exactly how this would end, considering Grantaire’s state.

He turns to Combeferre and Eponine, interjecting to mention German traffic laws, and Eponine boos at him before ranting about French drivers for a while.

When he looks back again, Grantaire is gone. He doesn’t see him that evening again, so he must have left the party. Enjolras isn’t sure if it’s a good or a bad sign (probably bad) and if he went home or just found a different bar. He asks Bahorel, trying for subtle and casual and failing miserably, judging by Bahorel’s smirk. 

After he stops grinning, Bahorel just shrugs and announces he’s not his brother’s keeper.

“He’s not even your brother,” Enjolras points out.

Bahorel covers his heart with his palm theatrically. “In all the ways that count,” he intones. “But yeah, I think he should be at Corinth, if you need him.”

Enjolras thanks him and tries not to turn the phrasing too much in his head, not to inspect the small pang in his chest at the words. It’s counterproductive and he needs to go home and get some sleep before work tomorrow.

***

He’s rudely woken up by Courfeyrac singing the never ever song _again_ , and honestly, why is he staying over once more? 

“Don’t you have your own apartment?” Enjolras yells, hitting the doors as he goes into the kitchen. “Tell me the truth, is anyone really going to miss Courfeyrac if I murder him?”

“It’s too early for crime plotting, have some coffee first. We can talk about hiding the body later,” Combeferre tells him and sits down, shuffling through the papers on the table. It’s unlike Combeferre to leave them out for so long; yesterday must have been busy. “I’ll type the notes up and send them ‘round. Are you going to the town hall today?” he asks and Enjolras blinks at him.

“Already taken care of,” he says and doesn’t have time to elaborate, because Courfeyrac is out of the bathroom and his hair is dripping water on the floor again. 

"You work fast," Courfeyrac says, toweling off his hair. "Did you give my regards to Gladys?"

Enjolras elects to ignore him, it's safer in the long run than getting into this particular discussion again. He turns on his laptop and attempts to filter out the conversation about the website; Combeferre insisting once more that he needs to see the copy before anything goes live. 

Enjolras is more preoccupied with his e-mail account: it's malfunctioning in an odd way, marking all the messages he's dealt with yesterday as new. He clicks through his inbox and the sent messages folder and it is certainly not working properly; nothing of the mail he's sent yesterday is showing up either. 

And there is the small matter of his computer insisting it's yesterday. So do all the news websites.

"Did you do something to my computer?" he asks Courfeyrac suspiciously, but the man looks surprised enough for Enjolras to presume his innocence. For now. 

"No? I can take a look if there's something wrong with it, though. I even promise not to look for your porn folder again," he says before glancing at Combeferre. "Either it really doesn't exist, or it's some seriously fucked up kinky shit, judging by the lengths he went to with hiding it."

"Don't kink shame," Combeferre says pleasantly, from where he's making pancakes. Enjolras looks between them, running his hand through his hair. 

"What time did you get here yesterday?" he asks Courfeyrac, who thinks about it a few seconds. 

"Just before four? Which, I'd like to point out, wasn't late, you just started the meeting without me, it's all on you, Enjolras," he catches Enjolras' gaze and frowns right back at him. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Enjolras says quickly. Nothing at all, except he might be finally going insane and proving right everyone who told him that amount of caffeine coupled with not enough sleep was going to have consequences. "I need to go," he says, standing up. Or trying to, because Combeferre's hand is firmly on his shoulder, gentle but steady.

"The pancakes are almost ready, you should eat."

He doesn't manage to get out until he polishes off a stack of pancakes, as his friends discuss the same novel they had yesterday. Which wasn't yesterday, but somehow today. Enjolras' head hurts and his mind races, frantically grasping for explanations, where there are none. At least no acceptable ones. 

His brain produces a memory of a movie he watched years ago, and he laughs without amusement. That would be something. 

Combeferre and Courfeyrac both give him bemused looks, which he waves off, washing the pancakes down with the rest of his coffee. "I do need to be going," he lies.

Courfeyrac asks him to wait so he can get his things and accompany him at least part of the way, but Enjolras feigns hurry he knows no one really buys. He has little patience for anything today, and the day has just started.

Or ended and started again, if you're willing to believe this.

The papers at the newsstand confirm the date, so does his cellphone. There's no evidence on his computer or his phone that yesterday happened at all, and maybe he did dream it somehow, lucidly and with a detailed prophetic aspect...

Now, which version is crazier, that is the question.

He gets to the cafe earlier than he has yesterday, since he hasn't waited for Courfeyrac, and Cosette hasn't arrived yet to open up. Grantaire is there already though, sitting on the steps, his back against the doors, head back and sunglasses perched on his nose. 

"Morning," he says and Grantaire barely shifts, but it seems that he's opening his eyes under the shades, before tilting his head a little in a semi-greeting.

"Yeah," he agrees. 

Enjolras shifts his laptop bag from one shoulder to the other and considers Grantaire, sitting there in yesterday's (or the day before's, depending how you're counting) clothes, the bags under his eyes visible even under the glasses. 

"Move over," he mutters and sits down on the steps next to him, as Grantaire obliges and shuffles a little to the side, making room. In the narrow space of the steps they're still pressed rather close together, shoulders and arms aligned. Enjolras mirrors his position and leans back against the doors as well, closing his eyes.

He's surprised at the fact that he can relax even a little bit right now, but when he closes his eyes, everything feels just that little bit better. Not less insane, not at all, but calmer, especially since Grantaire seems pleased with not having to hold a conversation in his hungover state and eases back next to him.

Enjolras is therefore a little annoyed when he's pulled out of this quiet reverie by a sound of a camera shutter followed by gentle laughter. Cosette is looking down at him, them, and smiling. "You make quite a picture," she informs them, not at all apologetically. "What can I do for my two favourite customers?"

"Less talking, more coffee," Grantaire grumbles, but he does so goodnaturedly enough that she just smiles. He gets up and then turns on his heel, reaching down. "Come on, Apollo, up with you," he says, his hand gripping Enjolras' forearm and pulling him to his feet. Enjolras sways on his feet for a second before stepping back and gesturing at Grantaire to hurry up the stairs after Cosette.

Grantaire smirks at him. “I see how it is, age before beauty,” he says, taking off his beanie and stuffing it into his pocket. He doesn’t remove his sunglasses though, and Enjolras pushes down on the strange, vague disappointment. 

“Usual?” Cosette asks, laughing as she turns on the machine and starts on the morning tasks of cleaning and preparation. 

It’s the same thing she always says. It’s the same thing she said yesterday (previous today) too. “Surprise me,” Enjolras tells her flatly.

She laughs. “One of these days that’s gonna land you with a caramel latte macchiato on soy, and what then? With sprinkles,” she adds. It’s not even a deja vu, it’s much worse, eerie, off-putting. “Oh, stop making that face, it’ll be right up. Sit down for a bit,” she orders and Enjolras stuffs a folded five dollar note inside the tip jar and sits down opposite Grantaire, who’s already slunk down, cheek flat on the surface, eyes closed. 

He scrunches up his nose after a few seconds and opens one eye, because pushing away the dark hair obscuring his view and looking up at Enjolras. “What?” he asks defensively and Enjolras realises he might have been staring. 

“Did you get any sleep at all?” he asks and Grantaire sits up a little, still slouching but a little more awake and alert, and considers him for a moment. He bends his leg at the knee, propping his foot up on the edge of his chair, and shrugs.

“Obviously not,” he says, with a hint of a challenge in his voice, daring Enjolras to disapprove. “I guess it’s gonna be the case of I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” he adds after a beat that’s too long to convey the usual flippancy. 

There’s still something a little careless in his tone, even while it’s uncharacteristically careful all the same, and Enjolras fixes him with a look. “Are you still drunk?”

“Could be, could be,” Grantaire agrees pleasantly and smiles up at Cosette, who places a large cup in front of him, together with a muffin, and then hands Enjolras his coffee. “Don’t worry, Enjolras, this is why I’m here,” he says, raising his coffee cup in a pointed salute. “Two cups of Cosette’s best and maybe half an hour, and I might even be fit to drive again. Some night, I’m telling you.”

“So I see,” Enjolras mutters. But he has seen Grantaire in various stages of being drunk, including the ones when he seemed to have the time of his life, and that definitely hadn’t happened last night. Not with how unhappy he looks right now, even when he smiles, the skin around his eyes pulled tight and the corners of his mouth twitching to pull downwards as he picks at his muffin absently. “I can drive you home,” Enjolras offers.

“Aren’t you one of those people with a respectable, nine to five job, to which you should be rushing?”

Enjolras shrugs. “I have time.” It’s barely seven, and while he has been known to come into the office at this hour from time to time (fine, often), he doesn’t actually _have to_. He knows, he’s been told. 

“Don’t trouble yourself on my behalf,” Grantaire tells him, shaking his head. Enjolras isn’t sure what shows on his face, but Grantaire’s expression softens a little before he adds, gentler: “I’ll manage.”

It’s a clear dismissal if Enjolras has heard any, and he drums his fingers against the table before standing up and picking up his coffee. He hesitates, looking down at Grantaire. “Just, take care,” he says finally. Grantaire offers him a lazy salute and doesn’t look up.

He gets to work, sorts through the files Lamarque drops off for him, sends Marius to get the permits at the town hall… he does the same as yesterday, growing more annoyed by the minute. He can’t let his work suffer, but he’s getting restless, anxious for the day to end in ways he never is. He loves his job, he’s _never_ eager to leave it, but he’s enormously relieved when Christian points out the waiting Courfeyrac.

“I have been tasked with a glorious duty,” Courf tells him and Enjolras nods.

“Joly got the thing?” he asks, enunciating the last word disdainfully. Courfeyrac blinks at him and then grins. 

“Ah, news travel fast. Which, people should can it, because I was to be the bearer of good news, and also the one anointed with a glorious mission.”

“Okay,” Enjolras says flatly. “Let’s go.”

“You’re sucking the fun out of everything today,” Courfeyrac complains. “Which isn’t that much different than your usual cheery demeanor, but you seem particularly grumpy. What happened?”

“Nothing,” he lies, pausing in front of the car and looking down at Grantaire’s feet, sticking out of the side window. “Grantaire,” he says in greeting and takes his seat, waiting for Courfeyrac to maneuver himself into the backseat. He drums his fingers against the armrest and glances at Grantaire. “Did you get some rest?” Is it possible that he looks more tired than yesterday, or is that Enjolras’ mind playing tricks on him?

Grantaire lolls his head to the side, studying him for a second. Enjolras bears it uncomfortably, but doesn’t look away. “Yeah, took a nap. Such is my glamorous life,” Grantaire says philosophically and starts the engine. 

Enjolras nods and doesn’t respond, even though he thinks about suggesting Grantaire takes it easy tonight. 

He’s too tired to get into the inevitable argument.

Courfeyrac doesn’t bear silence well, so he starts talking about the gifts for Joly and the fact that they are running out of the best diseases.

“You mean the sexually transmitted ones,” Grantaire points out with a grin and Courf shrugs with a ‘duh’ expression.

They’re almost the last ones to arrive, engulfed by the warmth of the cafe and the cheerful chatter of their friends and Enjolras feels himself relax, just a little. He watches everyone with barely hidden smile and affection and feels something settle inside of him.

It doesn’t last long. The conversations around him remind him that he’s done this before, of the whole fucking insanity of today, and he’s buzzing with annoyance again. Next to him, Eponine and Combeferre goes through the same conversation about the traffic violations Enjolras tried to avoid yesterday and he _can’t_ do this.

His gaze finds Grantaire, at the corner table with Marius and Bahorel. He’s doing his best to scratch off the label of his still almost-full beer and Enjolras finds himself crossing the room before he even thinks about it.

“Political engagement of the youth,” he says, sitting down on the one empty chair by the table. “Go.”

Grantaire looks at him with surprise, then snorts a puff of startled laughter. “If you wanted to start a fight, Apollo, you might have just as well socked me in the jaw.”

Enjolras grins at him humorlessly, showing his teeth. “Does this mean you have nothing to say on the subject?”

Grantaire grins back, a real one, not one of his smirks, but a wide grin of someone enjoying themselves. It transforms his face, makes the hard lines softer and the weariness still present around his eyes and mouth into something endearing and not off-putting.

Enjolras thinks he might be staring; hopefully Grantaire will interpret this as a challenge. 

“Au contraire, dear Apollo. The answer you’re looking for is, of course: what youth engagement?” he says, an opening salvo Enjolras waited for. Grantaire launches into a rant and Enjolras can’t help smiling. It even makes Grantaire do a double take. “Honestly, Enjolras, we can’t do this if you’re gonna be like that.”

“We’re not _doing_ anything, you’re being deliberately obtuse and your sources are dubious. You talk of consumerism as an inherently bad thing, while politically active and aware consumerism can…”

“Wait, wait, if you’re gonna start with defending capitalism, we need to back the hell up and start again,” Grantaire groans and pushes away his beer to make space for his hands as he leans forward in his chair over the table and towards Enjolras. “Here’s where your bullshit starts,” he says and then they’re off again. They stay like this until two in the morning, until Enjolras happens to glance at his watch and scrambles up, realising he needs to be up in a few very short hours. 

Grantaire nods and withdraws, collecting Bahorel on his way and saying something about Corinth. Enjolras grimaces at them but heads out.

***

He wakes up to Courfeyrac’s butchering of the song and groans, fumbling for his cellphone.

It’s still yesterday. The day before. Whatever the fuck.

He tosses the cellphone against the wall, regretting it immediately. It doesn’t look like it cracked, thankfully, the scratch on the screen has been there before, ever since the ill-advised trip to the zoo organised by, who else, Courfeyrac.

Enjolras frowns and walks into the bathroom, flushing pointedly. Courfeyrac screams bloody murder, almost pulling down the shower curtain.

Enjolras blinks at him innocently. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were here. Make some noise next time?” he advises and ducks the loofa Courfeyrac lobs at him. 

He nods at Combeferre and picks up his coffee mug. “Thanks,” he says earnestly, opening his laptop. He waits for the browser to load and logs into his e-mail. It taunts him with the unanswered messages and time wasted. He fires off a message to Lamarque and closes it up. “I’m calling in sick,” he informs Combeferre, who looks alarmed.

“You don’t look sick,” he says carefully. “Not to mention you tend to go in even when you have a fever making you delirious and you can’t breathe. Did something happen?” he asks with concern.

Enjolras looks at him, deliberating. He wants to explain, so much, wants to tell Combeferre everything and ask him if he’s going insane. Combeferre would drive him to the hospital, for a long round of MRI scans and doctor appointments and…

“In a way,” he says instead, reaching out to squeeze Combeferre’s shoulder reassuringly. “I’ll tell you when I can.”

“Alright,” Combeferre nods, still concerned but a little mollified. He follows that with a long-suffering sigh when Enjolras downs the rest of his coffee and then steals Combeferre’s. 

“I’m gonna murder you,” Courfeyrac says darkly, finally walking out of the bathroom. Enjolras smiles at him beatifically and kisses his forehead on the way to his bedroom to dress and pick up his things. “I don’t know what’s going on but I don’t think I like it,” he hears Courf tell Combeferre.

He turns off his cellphone and leaves the laptop behind. He steals Combeferre’s book, the one he meant to read, and packs two more, just in case. He puts his metro card in his pocket and lets himself get so lost in the book he goes around the line twice before getting off at the station by the park. He buys coffee and a sandwich and sits by the tree and reads, forces himself to not look at his phone until he forgets he even has it. Finishes the book and starts the second one until it gets colder and the sky grows grey.

It’s the best day he’s had in a long while, and it could be perfect if it wasn’t a stolen yesterday.

On his way back he finally lets himself consider his situation. What if the day repeats again, what then? How many times does he have to live through the same day? He can’t imagine a worse fate than this kind of stilted, stunted existence, where nothing more forwards, nothing _changes_ , with no progress or motion or hope. 

He’s always thought that Sisyphus had it worst. 

He almost doesn’t go to Joly’s party, but it’s Joly’s party and his success and he can’t miss it, even if it’s just for a moment, to put in an appearance and congratulate him. 

Courfeyrac accosts him in Musain’s doorway, yelling at Enjolras for not answering his cellphone and basically dropping off the face of the planet for the entire day. “It was just for a few hours,” Enjolras argues and gets another earful about being a smartass.

He slides into a seat next to Grantaire, who’s watching him with something akin to concern. “Rough day?” he asks, pushing a beer towards Enjolras, who shakes his head. “Want to talk about it?”

Wonders never cease, Enjolras supposes, Grantaire wanting to talk about something personal. “Do you want to talk about yours?” he shoots back and Grantaire raises his beer in a silent salute. They don’t talk for the rest of the evening, until Enjolras excuses himself to go home and watch the fucking Groundhog Day.

He remembers the movie being more amusing. But apart from the casual creepy dimension of Bill Murray’s stalkery seduction of Andie MacDowell, there are only few helpful tips on how to deal with the situation, and it’s not like Enjolras plans to learn the piano or save cats from trees. He has more important work to do and he’d like to do it, so he needs this day to _end_.

Tomorrow.

***

“Usual?” Cosette asks, reaching for the largest cup. Enjolras shakes his head.

“Surprise me,” he says and she laughs, opens her mouth to make the goddamn sprinkle joke again and he raises his hand. “No. Just…” he looks up at the board, at her round pretty letters in chalk, and scans the menu. “Anything but the usual,” he mutters and her mouth opens around a concerned ‘oh’ sound, but she doesn’t say anything else, just nods and sets to work.

He sits down opposite Grantaire and studies him, catalogues the dark shadows under his eyes and the weary lines around his mouth. 

Grantaire looks up, frowning suspiciously. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” Enjolras tells him. 

Cosette places a coffee and a muffin in front of Grantaire and then hands Enjolras’ his cup gingerly and hovers, clearly waiting for him to taste it. He takes a careful sip, and then another. “Not bad,” he allows. It’s too sweet, but the hint of almonds makes up for it a little. More milky than he usually takes it, but that was the point. “We’ll try the… the thing, caramel macchiato? tomorrow,” he tells her and she stares with a smile halfway to her lips, like she isn’t sure he’s joking.

“You’re being weird, Apollo,” Grantaire informs him.

“You mind?”

He gets a shrug. “Observing, not complaining. An aberration should be studied before the judgement is pronounced,” he says and grins slightly at Enjolras’ snort. “But as you would undoubtedly point out, I don’t give a shit about studying and I have no ground to dispense judgement, so rock on,” he says, waving his hand benevolently. 

Enjolras bangs his fingers against the table in a haphazard rhythm and sips his coffee before speaking. “Riddle me this,” he says and Grantaire raises his eyebrow, waiting for him to continue. “If nothing you do matters, what do you do.”

“I’d say I’m too drunk for this shit, but that would be a lie, I’m never too drunk for existential nihilism, this is kind of the point,” he says, smiling humorlessly. He sits up a little, running his fingers through his hair, succeeding in messing them up more. “Don’t ask what I do. What do _you_ do, Apollo?”

“Don’t call me that,” Enjolras mutters, without the usual bite. He watches Grantaire tear off a piece of muffin and regard Enjolras thoughtfully before offering him some. Enjolras helps himself to it and nods his thanks. “I can drive you home,” Enjolras offers.

“Aren’t you one of those people with a respectable, nine to five job, to which you should be rushing?”

Enjolras shrugs. “I have time.” 

“Don’t trouble yourself on my behalf,” Grantaire tells him, shaking his head. 

“It’s no trouble,” Enjolras assures him, before Grantaire can say anything more.

“I’ll manage. Walking will do me some good, clear my head.”

“Do you mind some company?” he asks. He doesn’t know, couldn’t tell, why is it so important now that Grantaire agrees, but it is. He lets Grantaire look at him for a moment, search his expression for something. Finally, Grantaire leans back in his seat, gesturing widely.

“I never mind your company, how could I?” he says, and it’s a lie and it’s a mockery and it’s honest at the same time, Enjolras doesn’t know what to make of it, so he just rolls his eyes and picks up his coffee.

They mostly walk in comfortable silence, apart from when Grantaire points out a funny looking cat under a car and when Enjolras asks him about his art classes and gets a rant on freshmen projects. It’s the strangest twenty minutes Enjolras has spent in Grantaire’s presence, he thinks, but it’s… nice. It’s nice.

“This is me, thank you for walking me home, Apollo,” Grantaire says, turning to stand on the steps leading up to his building. They’re almost the same height when he does that, with Enjolras having maybe a half inch on Grantaire now. “Your chivalry is most appreciated, I’ll call you when I have any dragons to fight.”

“Do you ever consider talking like a normal person?”

“Now, why would I?” Grantaire asks and winks at him, disappearing inside. He probably has a point, Enjolras thinks and turns to head back - his office is in the opposite direction from the cafe.

Once there, he waits for Marius to arrive and leans against his desk, clearing his throat. “You taught yourself German, didn’t you?”

“I took a few classes, but mostly on my own, yeah. Cosette helped me with the accent, do you know she and her father lived in Germany for two years?”

He did know that. He knows a lot about Cosette and about 80% of it is thanks to Marius’ stories. “Do you think you could try and teach me?” he asks next and Marius grins at him widely, already nodding.

“Sure, when do you want to start? Tomorrow?”

Enjolras tries not to grimace. “How about I buy you lunch and we start with the basics? No day like today,” he adds and can’t keep the bitter note from his voice. Marius, thankfully, doesn’t notice, and says he’ll print out some basic word sheets to start them off with.

He turns out a more patient teacher than Enjolras expected of him; a little prone to trying to explain more than necessary, but he’s good at making sense of the language that is entirely new to Enjolras.

He’s loathe to take hints from Bill Murray, but this is more useful than the piano.

***

He settles into a routine. 

Things vary, a bit, depending on his mood, sometimes for example he likes to make Courfeyrac scream by flushing the toilet and sometimes he doesn’t give a shit. 

But he invariably goes to the cafe and orders a new beverage every day, enjoying Cosette’s reaction when he starts switching to smoothies and then teas. He walks Grantaire home. Sometimes he lets him point the weird cat and sometimes he does it himself. They talk about different things, from work to weather to Enjolras’ most hated song (guess, come on and guess).

The conversation topics aren’t really important, but walking Grantaire home is, he couldn’t tell you why.

Or rather, he could, but he won’t. Saying it out loud would be the worst, he’s barely ready to whisper it in the privacy of his own head, so he pushes it down and ignores it. He’s good at that.

He has lunch with Marius and Marius teaches him German. After a week Enjolras has to change his reason; say he’s taking classes but needs additional help. If this carries on, he’ll have to come up with a new excuse in a while, but not yet.

He works, in a way. He puts off the files for tomorrow, if tomorrow comes, and chooses to read all the things he procrastinated on, learn new things, gather information. It’s tedious, when he can’t write anything down because it won’t last, but his memory has always been good and he’s putting it through a lot of exercise.

He goes to Joly’s party and argues with Grantaire. For the first week or so he chooses a new topic every night, sitting down and announcing the subject. Grantaire makes the crack about starting a fight but then he launches into it, all but leaving Enjolras breathless.

For the first week or so he chooses a new topic every night, but then one day he can’t stop thinking about how _wrong_ Grantaire was and spends the whole day researching it all to walk in and toss the subject at Grantaire again, prepared to counter his every argument. He steals Grantaire’s quotes and uses them to support his side and has his sources prepared.

Grantaire throws him off balance by immediately changing his side and destroying all of Enjolras’ carefully prepared arguments.

“Do you ever just argue for your own actual opinion?” Enjolras asks him hotly, frustrated, and Grantaire shrugs.

“I have no opinions, Apollo, I hold no beliefs. And,” he says, flat and sure, “you wouldn’t care for the ones I might have.”

Enjolras wants to protest, to argue, to plead, but Grantaire is already reaching for his beer, looking distant and unshakable.

***

Maybe because of that, and maybe because while his routine is pleasant enough it’s also a routine and so it chafes, next day he strides into the cafe and asks for a Mocha to go. “If you wouldn’t mind, make Grantaire’s coffee to go, and his muffin as well?” he says and shakes his head when Cosette blinks and looks like she wants to ask.

“Take me to a museum,” he demands from Grantaire, sitting down opposite him. Grantaire stares at him, creases from his sleeve visible on his cheek after he raises his head. “You can choose which one. I promise not to complain even if it’s torture.”

“You’re willing to place yourself in my hands just like that?”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, and they might be talking about a trip to a museum, but he finds he means it without such caveats. It’s a new realisation that he might have seen coming. “I need a change of pace, something. Please,” he adds and watches Grantaire deflate, like the argument he had lined up just escaped from him.

“You’re a menace,” he tells Enjolras and something stirs in Enjolras’ chest. “You have your car with you or are we taking the subway?”

“Which do you prefer?”

“I’m between drunk and hungover, don’t subject me to your driving,” he teases and Enjolras rolls his eyes at him. "Alright, let's go. You're in for a treat. Or torture, depends on your point of give, I suppose."

It's a treat. Sure, Enjolras has neither the qualifications nor acquired taste to appreciate everything fully, especially the modern art pieces at the gallery Grantaire takes him to. But that's not why he's here and he knows it. 

Grantaire's face is animated when he talks about the works, coming to life no matter whether he's in awe or taking shit about a given author. Enjolras spends more time watching him than the pieces. 

About an hour and a half into the tour, Grantaire suddenly perks up a bit more and tugs on Enjolras' sleeve. "Come on, I'll show you my favourite. I hate the man so much I'd punch him in the face if we ever met," he adds and he sounds like he's joking but he looks serious, flushed and buzzing. 

Enjolras can't look away from him, it's hard to register the mural. Finally he looks and it's striking, dark colors with flashes of fiery red. Grantaire would probably be able to tell him much more, discuss the texture and the subject, but all Enjolras cares about is how it gets to Grantaire, how it makes him feel.

"It's not even his best," Grantaire laughs breathlessly. "When I first saw his work I wanted to go and get so drunk I'd black out."

"Did you?" Enjolras asks. 

Grantaire shrugs. "It takes a lot to make me black out," he says no-committaly, and it's not an answer at all. "He's the worst. And the best, you know what I mean?"

Enjolras might and it scares him.

But what truly terrifies him is the fact that he's seen that look on Grantaire's face before, in flickers and flashes, pushed down and smothered fast.

***

He hasn't called in sick so many times in his entire life as he does recently, but considering its the same day and he's also worked through it a good few times, he figures it doesn't count.

He settles into one of the comfortable armchairs in Jehan's bookshop and waits until the man is done with the line of customers. Jehan comes over once the store is empty and stares down at him. 

"Tea, then," he mutters and Enjolras doesn't disagree with the assessment. He trails after Jehan to the kitchenette in the back and watches him move around, taking out mugs and boiling the water in an old fashioned kettle and measure out the leaves. "You want to start talking?"

"I really don't," Enjolras sighs, accepting the mug.

"Tough shit," Jehan says mercilessly and leans against the counter, watching him expectantly. 

"He's wrong for me," he says and waits for Jehan to say something. He's still waiting a full minute later and frowns, to which Jehan responds by raising an expectant eyebrow. "And I'm more than wrong for him."

"That's debatable, but let's accept your premise. So?"

"I don't want to... I don't want to be something that's wrong with his life. I'm pretty sure I have a tendency to drive him to drink, Jehan."

Jehan takes a sip of his tea and nods. "Do you know why Grantaire drinks?" he asks and Enjolras can tell he isn't supposed to try and answer that one. "He drinks because of you. Because of all of us. Because of his parents and his students and his colleagues and because of the song he heard and because of the weather. Mostly, Grantaire drinks because he's an alcoholic."

"There has to be..."

"Enjolras," Jehan says sharply and then his face softens and he throws his braid over his shoulder and leans forward, fingers under Enjolras' chin. "What do you want? Think well on the answer."

It's easier to say than he thought it would be. "I want to be a good thing in his life."

"So, that's settled, do you want some biscuits?"

"Sure," Enjolras says, still reeling. "I've been learning German. Marius is teaching me."

"Lovely, I have a book just for you. No, I insist," Jehan says and wanders off in search of the tome, leaving Enjolras to think. 

He doesn’t know what he expected, coming here. Maybe for Jehan to tell him it’s hopeless indeed, that he should back off and leave Grantaire be. That would be best.

But who is he kidding, he’s come to _Jehan_ , what did he expect to hear? Jehan doesn’t tell you anything you don’t already know, deep down, he just cuts through your bullshit with firm and gentle ease and forces you to own up to it. 

It’s the worst idea, Enjolras knows. It’s the worst idea for him, because Grantaire is overwhelming and undeniable, he’d make demands on Enjolras’ time and energy - he’d never actually say it, Grantaire wouldn’t, but how do you go about loving him and not devoting everything to him? Enjolras has no time to give.

(Except for now, in this neverending day, spread out thin and unreal like a golden afternoon, he has nothing but time and it makes him think and want things he shouldn’t. It’s a torture designed by the ancients; they’ve always had a penchant for creative torment.)

It’s the worst idea for Grantaire, because Enjolras doesn’t know how to love well, doesn’t know how to be gentle or kind. 

“Have you asked him what he wants?” Jehan asks, cutting into Enjolras’ thoughts seamlessly. He’s looking at Enjolras with no judgement in his gray eyes and that’s making him feel even more guilty. “Here, this is for you,” he says, handing Enjolras the book and he flips through it carefully.

It’s amazing, and probably too expensive for Enjolras to accept, but it’s just for the day. He’ll have to come back after all this and buy it from Jehan. 

The bell above the door chimes and Jehan looks up at the gaggle of teenage girls flowing in. Enjolras puts the book in his bag gingerly and stands up. “You need some help?”

He thinks about telling Jehan about the whole thing, about the day repeating, but never gets around to it.

***

He avoids Grantaire the next day; doesn’t go to the cafe in the morning and stays away from him at Joly’s party, choosing instead to for once try and understand what has got Eponine so worked up about parking tickets.

He doesn’t understand why he feels so guilty. Grantaire doesn’t even notice, he _can’t_ notice, because he doesn’t know Enjolras spent the evening of almost every repeated day arguing with him and getting to know him and getting endlessly frustrated by him and, the worst of all, getting to understand how much in love with Grantaire he really is.

Grantaire doesn’t know any of that. He barely looks at Enjolras for the whole evening and slips away unnoticed by most, probably heading for Corinth.

Enjolras’ chest caves in painfully and his hands ache.

***

He walks Grantaire home the next morning and as Grantaire walks up the steps to his building and turns around to say “This is me, thank you for walking me home, Apollo,” Enjolras makes up his mind.

“Can I come in?” he asks, Grantaire stiffening with surprise. “There’s something… I need to tell you something.”

Grantaire nods numbly and leads him two stories up, fumbling with his keys before letting them in. “I can offer you coffee, water, or something you’ll deem inappropriate this early in the day,” he says, dropping his bag onto the floor and heading for the kitchen.

Enjolras paces the length of the small living room twice before running his hand through his hair in frustration and stopping.

“Groundhog Day,” he says. Grantaire’s hands still over the glasses.

“The whole weather she-bang or the Bill Murray movie?”

“The movie,” Enjolras clarifies. “Alright, so I’ve been sort of living it. My day, this day, keeps repeating, and I’m stuck.”

“How many times so far?” Grantaire asks and something in his tone makes Enjolras hold his breath and look at him.

“You believe me,” he says accusingly and Grantaire just shrugs.

“You’re not one for practical jokes.”

“No, but you… you believe me,” he says, and has to sit down. He practically stumbles into the couch and accepts the glass Grantaire almost forces into his hand. “Thank you. I haven’t expected that,” he admits, and Grantaire snorts.

“I can see that. Frankly, you should have taken me to a crowded cafe and told me when the waiter will drop the plates and when the couple at the next table starts arguing. You know, show off a little.”

“I haven’t actually planned to tell you. I just…”

Grantaire waits for a few moments and sits down on the opposite end of the couch when it’s clear Enjolras won’t continue. “Alright,” he says thoughtfully. “What do you want to do? Whole day ahead, no consequences, what do you do, Apollo?”

“First, don’t call me that. Second, not the whole day, we’ll be expected at Musain in the evening, Joly will get the spot.”

“Of course he will. Also, this is exactly the kind of thing you should have done, tell me all about the future, Enjolras, amaze me. Tell me the lottery numbers,” he says brightly, waving his arm. “So not the whole day, but the next few hours. Tell me and I’ll make it so, I’m yours to command. I’ll take you to Disneyland if you want. Well, you’ll have to drive, I think I’m still over the legal limit.”

“It shows,” Enjolras says flatly, but he’s smiling. “While the Disneyland offer is tempting,” he says in a tone that plainly states it’s anything but, “I was thinking something local. We’ve done the modern art gallery already, but how about the impressionists exhibit? You’ve mentioned it’s good,” he says defensively at Grantaire’s look.

“So I’ve heard, but… you seriously have been hanging out with me on your loops? Don’t you have more interesting things to do, A-- Enjolras?”

Not a single one in the world, he thinks. 

They go to the exhibit, have lunch in the museum cafe, drive to Joly’s party together. Grantaire watches him carefully when he thinks Enjolras isn’t looking, his gaze searching, calculating. Enjolras lets him, ignores the prickling sensation on the back of his neck and lets himself enjoy everything else. 

It’s a near perfect day.

“So, what next?” Grantaire asks in the evening, moving his glass of soda out of the way to lean in over the table. “You go to sleep, you wake up, it’s today again and none of this has happened?”

“It happened. You just won’t remember it. I’m sorry,” he adds, not quite knowing what he’s apologising for.

Grantaire shakes his head. “I’m not,” he offers and it’s as difficult to tell what he means. Is he not regretting the day spent with Enjolras or is he glad he won’t remember it come tomorrow? “We could do this again,” he offers after a moment. “One of these days,” he jokes and Enjolras nods. “You know where to find me, Apollo.”

***

Five days later Enjolras takes Grantaire to a busy cafe and tells him when the little girl will spill her drink and when the guy writing the next great American novel will fumble for his cellphone after the annoying ringtone perks up.

Grantaire laughs and then looks at Enjolras with a strange smile in the corner of his mouth. “This is much more dramatic than I expected from you; usually you hate theatrics when they’re not for a cause.”

“Well, I’ve tried being inconspicuous and subtle, but you seemed offended I didn’t show off for you,” Enjolras tells him and Grantaire nods, still grinning.

“This does sound like me. So? What do you want to do? Whole day ahead, no consequences, what do you do, Apollo?”

“You asked me the same thing last time,” Enjolras mutters and shrugs. “You choose.”

Later that day, after they’ve watched Groundhog Day on Grantaire’s couch, because Grantaire seems to think it’s amusing, he looks at Enjolras curiously and asks, “So, who’s your Andie MacDowell? Who do you have to fuck to make the day end?” he clarifies and Enjolras stares at him, because he hadn’t thought of that and he should have.

He knows it’s about Grantaire, he’s not an idiot. About him and Grantaire. About Enjolras figuring out if… what… 

Would it be so easy?

The thought is abhorrent. Not the part where he fucks Grantaire (he wants that, god, he _wants_ that), but the part where he does it today. What would be worse, telling Grantaire or not? What would be more terrible: if the loops ended or if they didn’t?

He shakes his head. “I don’t think it’s about that.”

“Too bad,” Grantaire quips. “I’d volunteer. Then again, I don’t think the universe hates you that much,” he adds philosophically and Enjolras stumbles forward to his knees on the couch, reaching to catch Grantaire’s wrist.

“No,” he says and doesn’t know what to follow this with, how to explain himself to Grantaire. How to say: _I’d be terrible for you and I want you to want me anyway and I want you to accept it and move on, be better off_. How to say: _I’m not ready for this and I’ll probably never be and I’m starting to think it doesn’t matter_.

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t need to. Grantaire’s eyes go soft and he nods, settling back against the couch, forcing Enjolras to let go of his hand.

“Alright. How much time do we have before Joly’s party? Because I’m pretty sure you need to see the time loop episode of Xena now.”

***

He doesn’t tell Grantaire about the loops again.

***

He starts learning Polish, after he gets comfortable enough in German to converse on the simplest of topics. It’d be better if Feuilly was here, but Enjolras settles on courses on the net and sends Feuilly text messages that make him call Enjolras up from the airport and ask what the fuck.

It fills the time.

***

“Last night on earth,” he tells Grantaire, sitting opposite him at the table in Musain. “What do you do.”

Grantaire raises his eyebrows at him, but if he’s startled by the conversation topic, he doesn’t show it. “Apart from getting so drunk I black out and sleep through the trumpets?”

“Can you give me a serious answer?” Enjolras asks.

“I don’t know, can you ask me a serious question?” Grantaire mutters and sits up, shifting forward. “I’m good here,” he says finally. He must see the surprise in Enjolras’ eyes, because he shrugs. “Where would you rather be than here, with all your friends? Unless I’m the humanity’s last hope who needs to be sent to space and stop the asteroid, in which case you’re all fucked.”

Enjolras is quiet for a long time, looking around the cafe. He can’t disagree with Grantaire’s answer; there aren’t many places he’d rather be, and definitely no other people he’d like to be with. 

He’s been lucky, he thinks, even in the madness of this everlasting day.

“Can I ask you something else?”

“You’re in a weird mood tonight, Apollo,” Grantaire tells him. “But by all means, please continue your twenty questions game.”

“Must you insist on calling me that?”

“Was that the question? You’re wasting it.”

Enjolras sighs. “No.”

Grantaire smirks at him, his expression softening a little as he leans in closer. “How about I trade you one. Why does the whole Apollo thing pisses you off so much? I mean, that’s half the reason I do it, you’re extremely fun to wind up.”

“Because the other half is you building up that image of me,” Enjolras says quietly, not really managing to keep the bitterness out of his tone. 

“And what, you’re afraid of not matching up with the ideal? Trust me…”

“No, I’m afraid of being exactly what you think of me. Distant, unfeeling.”

Grantaire flinches, as if struck. His eyes are wide when he looks at Enjolras, and so dark. Enjolras wants to reach out, smooth down the lines of his face, kiss the tightness and the weariness away from his mouth. He doesn’t move.

“What was your question?” Grantaire asks finally, his voice hoarse.

“I was going to ask why you’ve never done anything… you’ve never said anything. Never asked me out, never kissed me. But I think I have the answer already.”

“You wouldn’t…” Grantaire says and shakes his head. “And if you would, then you shouldn’t.”

Enjolras stands up and moves closer to Grantaire, leaning down to kiss his forehead. Grantaire stays completely still, eyes flickering to Enjolras’ face, then his hands, back to his mouth again, before shuttering close when his lips touch Grantaire’s forehead. 

“I need to go, work in the morning,” Enjolras says softly. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he adds, though he’s pretty sure Grantaire won’t remember this anyway.

***

He shows up at the cafe and accepts his usual from Cosette with a smile. 

He sits down opposite Grantaire, who’s there in clothes he wore in the mythical land of yesterday that Enjolras barely remembers anymore, his hair a mess and the brightness of his eyes dimmed by the dark shadows underneath.

Grantaire looks up, frowning suspiciously. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” Enjolras tells him. 

Cosette places the coffee and the muffin in front of Grantaire and ruffles his hair. Enjolras thinks he’d like to do the same, bury his fingers in the dark curls. It’s such a simple thing and his fingers ache. 

“Do I have something on my face?” Grantaire asks suspiciously. 

“No. You do look tired,” Enjolras tells him softly. He looks more tired than he did last time, and the time before that, but this might be the weariness in Enjolras’ tinting his gaze. 

“I look like shit,” Grantaire says firmly. “Also, I think I’m still drunk,” he adds thoughtfully, with a quick look gauging Enjolras’ reaction, like he’s trying to provoke him into a cutting response.

“Come on, I’ll walk you home,” he says, standing up and reaching his hand down to Grantaire. “I’ll ask what made you drink so much yesterday and you’ll tell me to fuck off, it’ll be fun.”

“You’re being weird, Apollo,” Grantaire informs him, but grasps Enjolras’ wrist and lets himself be pulled up. 

They walk in silence until Enjolras points out the weird cat under the car and Grantaire doesn’t even look the way he’s pointing.

“It was my father’s birthday yesterday, I made a mistake of calling him to wish him many happy returns.”

“I didn’t ask,” Enjolras says and Grantaire shrugs at him wordlessly, not looking up. “Is he…”

“He’s not a drunk or… or whatever maudlin story you could make up. He’s highly respected in his field, writes incomprehensible books. Wishes I had done something out of my life instead of being a drain on this country,” he says lightly and Enjolras reaches out, slides his hand into Grantaire’s. “I don’t need your pity, or your well intentioned kindness,” he says, even though he doesn’t let go.

“I don’t do pity, and when have you ever known me to be kind?” Enjolras says, smiling humorlessly. They reach Grantaire’s place and Grantaire walks up the first step, turning to face him, their hands clasped between them still. “What I want to do is offer comfort. Go, get some sleep. If my sources are right, Joly will get the spot and we’ll be expected at his party tonight. I’ll see you later,” he says, stepping back. 

Grantaire lets him and nods, watching him with an inscrutable expression until Enjolras turns on his heel and walks away.

He forces himself not to turn back to look at Grantaire, because then walking away would be impossible, and this isn’t the right moment, with Grantaire still drunk and Enjolras still… something. He heads for Jehan’s store instead, and waits in the giant armchair until Jehan has time to deal with him.

“Tea, then?” Jehan mutters, coming to stand closer and looking down at him. Enjolras follows him to the kitchenette and watches the tea making ritual. It’s soothing, somehow. He closes his hands around the warm mug he’s handed and inhales. “You want to start talking?”

“I don’t know how to love him,” Enjolras says, the words punched out of him. Jehan looks at him kindly.

“Funny, you’ve been doing well enough. I would have sworn you were a natural.”

“I don’t know how to love him in a way he deserves to be,” Enjolras clarifies.

“Ah, the crux of the matter. I’m pretty sure Grantaire would disagree with you.”

“I’d be doing him a disservice.”

“Stop playing a martyr, Enjolras, it’s unbecoming,” Jehan chastises him. “What did you come here to tell me?” he asks then, softer.

Enjolras takes a sip of the tea and turns the question over in his mind. What is it he really wants? _Grantaire_ , that much is obvious, but he’s wanted him before and he wasn’t ready to do anything with it.

“I want to take my time and learn how to be with him. I want to have the time to make him happy,” he adds and Jehan nods, opening the cupboard to pull out a cookie jar. “What is this, positive reinforcement?” Enjolras asks him.

Jehan laughs loudly. “No, I just wanted a cookie. Help yourself, though.”

His phone buzzes with a text from Courfeyrac, who asks if he’s playing hookie from his work and if he needs a ride to Musain later, because Joly got the thing. Enjolras doesn’t even need to look at it, he’s gotten the same message every day he wasn’t at work for Courf and Grantaire to pick him up. 

He calls back now. “The thing,” he says pointedly, and then talks over Courfeyrac’s response. He knows that one by heart as well. “I’ll be there, I’ll pick up Grantaire on my way.”

He hums as he leaves the shop, abuzz with anxious, nervous energy. He texts Grantaire to let him know he’s on his way and realises that for the first time in a long while he’s looking forward to something.

Grantaire opens the doors still wearing the same clothes. He looks more of a mess than before; he hasn’t showered, clearly hasn’t slept. Enjolras blinks at him in concern and reaches out, but Grantaire steps back in, leaving the doors open.

“You can’t do things like that,” he tells Enjolras. 

“What did I do?”

Grantaire snorts, looking manic. “What did he do, he asks. Well, Apollo, let me remind you how this works. We avoid this. Sometimes I’ll say too much and sometimes you’ll look at me in a way that… but we don’t do this. We don’t hold hands and you don’t come pick me up for meetings and _we don’t do this_.”

“I’d like to,” Enjolras tells him softly and steps forward, hesitating few inches in front of Grantaire. “May I?”

“You ask for permission?” Grantaire asks incredulously, his voice shaking just a little.

“Yes. I’d like to kiss you now--” he doesn’t get to finish because Grantaire is kissing him, his lips chapped and his hair smelling of smoke and beer. His hands fist Enjolras’ shirt and Enjolras groans, pulls him closer and lets himself have this. 

It’s not a perfect kiss, except for all the ways in which it is.

“This will be a disaster,” Grantaire tells him when they pull back, when oxygen starts becoming an issue and Enjolras’ hands are shaking and his legs are wanting to give way. He smiles at that anyway.

“Probably. Let’s try and make it worth it, then,” he says and kisses the tip of Grantaire’s nose. “I want to take you out. The choices of venue are limited, because we need to be at Musain, but I’d like to hold your hand under the table and kiss you at random intervals, what say you?”

“Let me get changed,” Grantaire mutters and doesn’t move away until Enjolras kisses him again.

“Shower wouldn’t go amiss,” he tells him and Grantaire flips him off before he disappears into the bathroom. Enjolras picks up a book at random and settles on the couch, waiting. 

It takes him three or four read-throughs to understand a paragraph but it’s alright, he gets there in the end. 

“I’m ready,” he says, to himself and the universe.

Grantaire comes out looking more presentable, his hair wet and his eyes still tired and with shadows under them, but his smile only widens when he sees Enjolras on the couch. “You’re here.”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “Was there any doubt?” he asks, knowing there was, there will be, for a while yet. It’s fine, he hopes to have the time to work on it.

They reach Musain as one of the firsts there, save for Musichetta and Bousset who are setting the tables, Bousset frowning because he’s not allowed to prepare the balloons.

“Three exploded in your face already,” Musichetta tells him and hands the packet to Grantaire instead, who makes a crack about holding your breath and blowing things that has Enjolras roll his eyes harder than ever in his life and then kiss Grantaire’s ear.

“Oh, hey, congratulations,” Bousset says with very little surprise and Musichetta beams at them, ruffling Enjolras’ hair as she stands up to push some tables together. Enjolras moves to help her and he knows he’s smiling like a lunatic, but it’s difficult to stop.

He keeps stealing glances at Grantaire and meeting his gaze throughout the night, even when they’re sitting pressed close and, like Enjolras has promised, holding hands under the table. Even when Enjolras, for the hell of it, gets them both involved in Combeferre and Eponine’s traffic violations argument and it spirals from there, somehow, to TSA guidelines and airport security. How, Enjolras couldn’t tell you.

Partly because he ends the argument with his hand on Grantaire’s thigh, his face hidden in Grantaire’s neck.

He walks Grantaire home and it takes a long time, neither of them in any hurry, their fingers laced. On the steps, Grantaire turns to look at him, their eyes almost level like this, and ducks his head shyly. “You could come in.”

Enjolras’ heart doesn’t know what to do with itself, can’t decide between frenzy and stillness. 

“Not tonight,” he croaks, and takes Grantaire’s face in his hands, running his thumb over Grantaire’s cheek. “You need rest.”

“Because I look like shit?”

“Because you look like shit,” Enjolras agrees fondly and kisses him again. And again. “Breakfast tomorrow morning at Cosette’s?”

“It’s a date,” Grantaire agrees and walks inside backwards, quickly, like he’s worried that if he lingers he won’t be able to go.

Enjolras knows the feeling. It takes him a while to peel his shoes off the pavement in front of the building and head home.

He lies in bed in dead silence of the night for a very long time, eyes closed as he thinks of Grantaire’s hand in his, of Grantaire’s mouth, of his smile. Of how he looked _happy_ for once, and maybe this won’t be a complete disaster, maybe he won’t fuck up beyond repair, maybe the good things will outweigh the bad.

_Let me find out_ he pleads with the universe. _I’m ready_.

***

He wakes up to Courfeyrac singing the fucking damned blasted _fucking_ song and hides his face in the pillow, feeling heat under his eyelids.

But then he notices - there’s no water running, Courfeyrac’s voice seems to come from the _kitchen_ , and it’s a different verse and…

He feels blindly for his cellphone, heart in his throat.

_It’s tomorrow._

“Good morning,” Courfeyrac says loudly, pointedly, when Enjolras breezes through the living room, still putting his shirt on, socks in his hand. Enjolras pauses and looks at him, trying to comprehend what was said.

“Yes,” he agrees. “It is.”

He sees the way Courfeyrac and Combeferre exchange amused glances and considers flipping them off, but fine, he’ll let this one go.

“Coffee?” Combeferre asks him and Enjolras reconsiders. Well, he needs to put on his socks, might as well sit down. “You look… cheerful,” he hazards.

“Something to do with our dear friend Grantaire?” Courfeyrac asks slyly. Enjolras gives him a look that he probably ruins by smiling. “It does,” Courfeyrac all but squeals, purposefully high-pitched. 

“Don’t…” Enjolras starts and stumbles into a halt. Don’t what, don’t make it a big deal? It is. Don’t tease? He doesn’t mind. Don’t jinx it? That’s on him, he needs to work for it, he needs to… “Don’t let me fuck this up,” he says and covers his embarrassment by downing the whole mug of coffee.

When he looks up, Courfeyrac is still smiling, but it’s no longer manic or teasing. “We won’t. But I don’t think you need our help.”

He’s glad for it anyway.

He gets to the cafe and waves at Cosette, but his eyes are on Grantaire. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Grantaire says before ducking his head. “You didn’t say when I should be here, but I’ve figured before your work…”

“Fuck,” Enjolras mutters, interrupting. He fucking forgot. “Sorry, give me a second,” he says and fishes out his cellphone. Back in Kansas, Toto, time to get used to it. Thankfully. “I’m extremely sorry, I know I called in sick yesterday, but I can’t come in today either,” he tells Lamarque, then admits “I’m not actually sick, I just need… I need a few days,” he tells her and she laughs.

“Enjolras, it’s fine. You’re not in the middle of any cases. I have two waiting for you, but I can redistribute. We might manage to get some work done despite your absence,” she teases cheerfully.

“Give one of the cases to Marius, it’s time. He can call me to consult, I’m in town, just…”

“I get it. Take a week. Fuck, Enjolras, take two, the HR is on your case anyway. And congratulations,” she adds.

He doesn’t know how she knows, but that’s Lamarque. “On what?”

“On whatever it is,” she says smugly and disconnects. Enjolras catches Grantaire’s amazed gaze and shrugs. 

“Sorry, I had to… Good morning,” he says, sitting down next to Grantaire and leaning in to kiss him. 

“So it is,” Grantaire says against his jaw. “Apparently your day has opened up?” he asks shyly, like he isn’t sure what Enjolras has cleared his schedule for, like he hopes it might be him but won’t bet on it. 

Grantaire will have a hard time dealing with Enjolras’ workaholic tendencies, Enjolras knows. They’ll fight about this, he’s sure. They’ll fight about many things. But they’ll be fighting _for_ this, for the way Grantaire’s hand fits his and for the way their smiles match when their mouths find each other again.

“I have time,” Enjolras tells him. “I’m all yours.”

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know anymore, guys, I have no sanity left when it comes to these two.
> 
> Then again, I'm in excellent company. Come say hi on tumblr (realitycheckbounced), let's spiral into insanity together. Such fun, when gifsets make you cry.


End file.
